As a singer belted out “Ciao, Ciao, bambino,” Bricktop herself sidled up to the table, cheroot cigar in mouth, a two-finger tumbler of rye whisky in hand.
“Hiya, girlies,” she said, and sat. “What’s the shakes?”
“Ciao, Bricky,” Novella said.
“How are you two this evening? Staying out of trouble, I hope,” Bricktop said with a wink. “I plan to sing in a few, and I don’t wanna have to stop midset to kick you out on your tails.”
“Cause trouble?” Alicia said, and batted her eyes. “Have you met two more innocent girls?”
“Humph,” Bricktop said, and blew three smoke rings.
She gave Novella the once-over.
“You’re teensy as a bug,” she said. Then, to Alicia: “And you’re a skinny thang. But I read the papers, honey luv. What’s this about you getting arrested last week? In Capri?”
“Utter nonsense,” Alicia said, and batted the air. “It’s Edmund. Again. He is the reason for all my problems.”
“She broke into ze villa,” Novella clarified, in her thick, Italian accent.
Alicia shot her a glare. Sometimes she regretted teaching her friend so much English. Novella had become irritatingly fluent.
“Burglary?” Bricktop said with a hoarse chuckle. “Who’s the victim?”
“There’s no victim.…”
“Rich Americana,” Novella piped in. “Norma Clark. I told Alicia, zis is fun, but you get to jail.”
“It wasn’t the least bit fun.” Alicia looked at Bricktop. “I did it for my divorce. I needed evidence of Edmund’s adultery and can’t afford a private investigator.”
Bricktop tittered and shook her head.
“Honey chile, I’ve been rich and poor, rich and poor, so many times.…”
She ran both hands over her thick belly and fluffed her red-now-graying hair.
“But I never committed a dang crime.”
“I didn’t commit a crime,” Alicia said. “It was an investigation.”
These were the words Fred told her to use. Of course, Fred was enmeshed in his own legal troubles. This time he’d been indicted for race fixing. A misunderstanding, he swore.
“I have no ill will toward Norma Clark,” Alicia said. “I don’t even know her.”
“Isn’t she sleeping with your husband?”
“I don’t care about that.” Alicia flicked her hand. “She’s welcome to him, but she will have to wait in line. I’ve named seven women in my petition. Along with adultery, I’m also charging Edmund with concubinage, assault, and associating with vulgar low-type characters.”
“He does make questionable relationships,” Bricktop said.
Alicia rolled her eyes.
“I found what I needed. A pair of Edmund’s underwear. One sock. Shavings from his beard. It’s all going in the dossier.”
“She wants to be citizen,” Novella said. “Zen she acts like zis. She is too crazy for United States.”
Bricktop downed her whisky.
“You’d better be careful,” she said. “Or you’ll end up like Charlie Chaplin. Uncle Sam canceled his reentry permit while he was abroad and for the last seven years he’s been…” She waved. “Locked out. Probably for good.”
“Getting stuck in Rome wouldn’t be the worst outcome,” Alicia sniffed.
She couldn’t wait much longer to divorce Edmund, as Alicia needed the settlement more than she needed citizenship. Purdom was known to be a shoddy payer-of-alimonies, but it remained her best hope.
Money was again thin, with bit roles at Cinecittà barely covering her paints. As for the gossip trade, Alicia maintained her network of spies in lingerie departments, psychiatric wards, and AA meetings nationwide, but Hollywood news traveled ten thousand miles to reach Rome, and ten thousand miles to reverse, and her information lagged behind the hundreds of tips columnists received each day. There was some appetite for Via Veneto scoop, but not enough to keep Alicia in nice dresses and the occasional fur.
“Well, girlies.” Bricktop smacked the table. “It’s been nice squawking with ya.”
She pointed at Alicia with her stamped-out cigar.
“Don’t get yourself into any more tussles, sister. I know it’s tough, with that body, and that face, but antics get tired, even in Rome.”
With that, Bricktop sashayed off.
“Goodness,” Alicia said. “One tiny fracas, and suddenly it’s ‘antics.’ I’m no crazier than anyone else in this city. Compared to you, I’m a nun!”
“Ha!” Novella squawked. “I am quiet artist.”
“And your paintings get the most press of all,” Alicia said, as that old jealousy crept in.
She took a sip of bourbon as Bricky slid behind the mike. With a distant smile, she closed her eyes and began to sway. The song was Cole Porter, Bricktop’s “favorite person who’s ever lived.”
“Novella,” Alicia whispered, stretching across the table. “Let’s go. I’m not feeling well.”
There was something disquieting about the way Bricky sang, how she dipped into each note with her full body, and with such passion and despair. It was too intimate, too stirring almost.
The thrill when we meet
Is so bittersweet
“Please?” Alicia pleaded, for she was ten seconds from tears.
Novella grunted and swiped her handbag from the floor. Alicia gave Bricktop a good-bye wave, but the woman didn’t notice. When Bricky sang, it was only ever her, and the music, and maybe Cole Porter, too.
* * *
They stepped outside. The air was cool. As they walked, Alicia cinched her coat tighter, thinking how drastically the temperature had changed in a few weeks. The days were still warm, but at night you could no longer smell summer in the air. A new season had begun.
The two women tottered a few steps, until Novella’s heel slipped into a crack, and she launched right out of her shoe. Gripping each other in a fit of giggles, they hopped backward to fetch the lost pump.
“One cocktail too many,” Novella said.
“I’m less concerned with what we drank than the fact you could’ve slipped through that crack. An Italian Alice in Wonderland.”
“I am short, but you are zee person skee-ny enough to fit.”
Novella began to sing.
“‘Ciao, ciao, bambina! Un bacio ancora.…’”
“‘E poi per sempre…’” Alicia gave a little burp.
“Hello, ladies, we are merry tonight,” said a thick, molasses voice.
Alicia glanced up to see Mario, Prince Ruspoli, if you please. And Alicia did please, for she and Mario had recently started dating. He’d been impressed and not put off by her Capri escapades. Most Romans felt the same.
Novella continued to sing.
“‘Ciao, ciao, bambina!’”
“No, no, no!” Mario said. “No ‘Ciao, ciao, bambina.’ Bambina stay. Ti voglio bene da morire!”
He clutched his heart and Alicia snorted.
“Boh! So much you could die? Really, Prince Ruspoli.”
Mario offered one of his wolfish smiles.
“I’ve come all this way to see you,” he said, “but it seems the fun’s been had.”
“Yep,” Alicia said with a hiccup.
“Fancy another cocktail?”
“I must decline,” she said. “I’m trying to be good. One more drink and I could accidentally get myself involved in another striptease scandal!”
“Rome should be so lucky.”
Laughing, Alicia looked toward Bricktop’s and noticed a modest-sized group walking toward the entrance, led by a man with jet-black hair.
“Stronzo,” Alicia growled.
She rotated away from her friends and marched toward the club. Novella called out, but Alicia didn’t listen. Instead she picked up her pace.
“Purdom!” she screamed, wielding her handbag as if she might strike.
“Ah! Brilliant! It’s my lovely wife!”
“The judge told you to stay away from me duri
ng our separation,” she said. “Away from Rome. And, aren’t you supposed to be in the States with your daughters? You’re a worse father than you are a spouse.”
“Relax, darling, just having a bit of a holiday,” he said, cool as forever.
“Bella, Alicia,” said a member of Edmund’s party, coffee heir Manuel Miranda. “You look lovely.”
“Grazie,” Alicia grumbled.
She scanned the others. French actor Pierre Brice. A busty, nameless blonde. And—of course—Linda Christian, smugger than a Fifth Avenue child after a Christmas feast.
“Hello, Alicia,” Linda said in a genuine attempt at politeness.
“Ciao, ciao.” Alicia faced Edmund again. “I have all the evidence I need to compel the most generous of divorce settlements. But if you don’t behave, the price will go up.”
“Your threats, like a fly buzzing in my ear,” he said, and rolled his eyes.
“I have evidence,” she said again.
“You’ve stolen some possessions belonging to Norma Clark.” Edmund shrugged. “What does that mean? You and I are estranged and free to date whomever we please. You’ve been with a bevy of men yourself. The parade of boring, charmless princes, to start.”
“Hey,” said Prince Ruspoli, halfheartedly.
“And let’s not forget your multiyear affair with an official of the United States government.”
“How many times do I have to say it? I haven’t seen the man in years.”
“But you’ve spoken with him. He’s sent you telegrams, asking to meet.”
“You’re making it all up.”
“Have you looked, Alicia?” Edmund said, and shot up a brow. “Have you looked for that box you toted from the States to London, and then to Rome?” He snickered. “There are some gems in there. Movie tickets and telegrams and love letters galore. Some were pretty steamy, my dear.”
Alicia’s heart beat quickly, like the patter of hooves on turf.
“What did you do, Edmund?”
“Just had a little fire. The weather’s getting chilly, my love.”
Alicia gasped.
“Not to worry,” he said, “I didn’t burn all of it. Had to keep a few things for personal use. A bloke never knows when he might need an erotic letter, or a lock of hair.”
Alicia cried out again. If this was all true, she’d lost more than her memories of Jack.
“You snake,” she said. “My citizenship papers are in there!”
“Were in there, in any case.”
Alicia lunged at him. He fell into a bush and she jumped on top and lashed at his chest and face. Before long, Manuel pulled her off and Alicia accidentally punched him, too.
“Those are the only mementos I have,” she said, hot tears rushing, “of my entire life, and you took them, along with my chance to be an American. Your ex-wife was right, everything she said.”
Edmund lit a cigarette. He blew a stream of smoke from the left side of his mouth.
“I’m debating whether to hand some of it over to the press,” he said, and wiped a drip of blood from his cheek.
Alicia checked her hands and found scraps of skin beneath her nails.
“Who’s going to care about some senator?” she asked, flicking parts of Edmund’s face onto the pavement. “Politicians are the dregs of the gossip pages, the very end of interesting information.”
“Perhaps they won’t care about a senator,” Edmund agreed, “but they will when he runs for president.”
“President? Where did you hear such bunk?”
“It’s in all the papers. John Kennedy has many assets, but no one knows about his greatest liability—you. How very un-American to bed an immigrant, from a Communist country, no less, a woman so inconsequential she doesn’t have a real name. A woman who, it must be stated, is completely made up.”
Alicia sprang toward him a second time, but Manuel was agile, and got to her first. As he held both of her arms behind her back, she lifted one foot and kicked Edmund Purdom square in the nuts.
Behind her, a camera went click.
She struggled to twist around and give the scattini a kick of his own, but Manuel was too strong. The man snapped one more photo and then hopped into his shiny red car. A Fiat, of all the injustices. Maybe Rome wasn’t so great. The damned scattini had stature now.
“Enjoy your evening, Alicia,” Edmund said, and took Linda’s hand as he limped away.
“Arrivederci, stronzino!” Novella called out.
She was resting on a fountain, smoking a cigarette and watching the show.
“Vaffanculo!” she added. “How you say in English? Ah … go fuck yourself!”
“You can let go of me now,” Alicia told Manuel as she squirmed free. “Your friends are inside.”
Manuel whistled for a taxi. Novella tossed her cigarette into the fountain and then made her way back to the curb. A wave of sorrow washed over Alicia. She began to cry.
“Ay, Alicia, he is not worz zee tears,” Novella said, and slung an arm across her shoulders.
“He’s a despicable person,” Alicia snuffled.
“Sì. But we know zis for always.”
“I’ll never understand what ladies see in Purdom,” Manuel said, as he pushed the women into a taxi. “He’s a cad, no more than three-quarters a man.”
“Perhaps you should alert your pal Linda Christian,” Alicia said.
Manuel slammed the door, then poked his head through the open window.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Linda,” he said. “She thinks he’s a good lay, but nothing more. He wants to marry her, but the sentiment isn’t shared. The girl is praying for a long divorce so that she might be let off the hook. I hope you’re not the one stuck with him for good.”
ROME, HOLLYWOOD ON TIBER, IS PLACING EMPHASIS ON SEX
The Petersburg–Colonial Heights Progress-Index, November 22, 1959
ROME
As Rome buzzed with the so-called Purdom squabble, Alicia locked herself in the studio to paint. When she first landed in Hollywood, she was desperate to be in the papers. Now she couldn’t stay out of them.
“I thought you were going to cool it,” Kate said after reading the latest in the Los Angeles Times. “But I see your name more than Kennedy’s. Are you running for president, too?”
Regarding him, Alicia called Jack five or six times, using the numbers she still had. She also sent two telegrams and tried the Senate switchboard, all to no success.
She didn’t know that Edmund would really go public. The man was unpredictable, but lazy to the core. Alicia prayed that exposing Jack would prove too taxing and that he’d eventually forget. It was her only hope, since Jack hadn’t returned her calls.
Edmund’s material felt like a ticking bomb, and Alicia grew more agitated by the day. Thanks to Gestapo visits and air raids, her sleep had long been fitful, but it’d gotten even worse. She was like a difficult baby, napping in ten-minute increments, only to wake up fussy and unsatisfied.
One night, after Nova and a gaggle of others left for the clubs, Alicia lay in bed, hands crossed over her chest, as she beseeched the heavens for the sweet release of sleep. But all she could think of was Jack, and Edmund, and her citizenship papers, now gone. Alicia claimed that she didn’t care if she ever returned to the States, but that wasn’t true. If nothing else, she’d promised to vote for Jack.
After two o’clock in the morning, Alicia gave up. She kicked off her blanket and charged toward the phone.
“For fuck’s sake, Alicia,” Fred said when he heard her voice. “I told you not to go to Europe with Edmund Purdom.”
“It’s a tad late for I-told-you-so’s, don’t you think?” Alicia said. “And he tricked me.”
“Tricked you, how?”
“The bastard drew me in with his dusky handsomeness. I mistook his tantrums for passion, his tendency to sulk for broodiness. He was supposed to be the next big thing, and then he wasn’t. I never truly appreciated that he’s a shit actor, so wooden and boring.�
��
“‘Boring’ doesn’t seem like the word for either of you these days,” Fred pointed out.
“It’s all being blown out of proportion.”
“I read that you slapped his face and pulled his beard.”
“I scratched his face, and I’d never touch that nasty beard,” she said. “He provoked me! He stole my citizenship papers!”
“I didn’t realize you had those.”
“Very droll, Fred. I was the person wronged here, not Edmund.”
“Linda Christian is telling people that you threatened to punch her in the mouth.”
“She wishes. Then she’d have reason for more plastic surgery.”
“Do you not want to come back to the States?” Fred asked. “Is that it? I mean, if Jack Kennedy is going to be president, I can see that.”
“Of course I want to!” Alicia said, tears brimming. “That’s why I called. I must reach Jack. Edmund says he’ll expose everything about our relationship and I need to warn him.”
“What are you so worried about?”
“Fred, you know that at times our—um—communications have overlapped with his marriage.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Fred said with a chortle.
Alicia could tell from the wet, thick sound of his laugh that Fred had gotten fatter since she’d been away.
“I tried to call him,” she said, “numerous times, but he hasn’t responded.”
“And you want me to help you find him,” Fred guessed.
“Yes,” she answered softly.
Fred sighed deeply, and blubbered his lips.
“I am working with the family on a few things,” he said.
The “family” was Peter Lawford, no doubt, though he scarcely qualified. Alicia had seen his wife on Ari’s yacht over the summer, and Pat made it clear theirs was a marriage solely in name. Alicia hadn’t gotten around to prying for details, as she was too distracted by the eight types of caviar, two hairdressers, and world-class masseuse aboard the Christina.
“There’s an event in New York,” Fred told her. “The first week of December. It’s a jubilee in honor of Eleanor Roosevelt, and Jack is scheduled to attend.”
The Summer I Met Jack Page 38